


Trout Heart Replica

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, F/M, Fucked Up, In poor taste probably, Infidelity, Minor Original Character(s), Miscarriage, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader's shitty embroidery, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11425893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: You experience a tragedy.





	Trout Heart Replica

**Author's Note:**

> This one is gross and weird. I mostly wrote it while very inebriated. Picks up a few months after "Purebred" left off. I promise I'm still working on my other fic...it just takes me longer. Requests are welcome for this series. 
> 
> Title song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvbwia6OOkU

You are beginning to feel oddly at home here, though you are not treated with any particular warmth or compassion. You can tell that your handmaidens feel sorry for you; they take great care to be gentle with you when they brush your hair and help you wash. Your mangled ear has healed well enough, but you will never wear those heavy silver earrings again. Someone has tactfully packed them away for you. It was likely Hellen, who is the favorite of your handmaidens and who is very taken with you. She is a few years your elder, and she has become like an older sister to you. She accompanies you on your frequent walks around the exterior of the keep, fussing over whether or not you are dressed warmly enough. You are allowed to roam the keep and its surrounding lands as you please, but you assume that that right will only extend for as long as you intend to cooperate. There is, after all, a lock on the outside of your chamber door, and you do not have the key.

You spend most days with Hellen, dinnertime with the sullen household, and most nights with your husband. You try not to think about what he does beyond the confines of your marriage bed. You are not overly bothered by whatever torture he might inflict upon his prisoners. The Old Ways are bloody; you were brought up around enough dungeons to know than an errant scream in the night is nothing to fear. It is not the violence that bothers you, but the flagrant infidelity. Women come and go and seem to think that you will not notice or care; sometimes you sit at your window, soaking in the meager northern sun, balling yarn slowly, absently, or paused in the middle of penning a letter to your sister, mulling over the kinds of things a woman like you could do to a common garden-variety slut. You don't seem to have as many feelings anymore, at least not those that could cause you any significant pang of regret or grief. After only a few months at the Dreadfort, you've already accumulated enough weapons in your bedroom alone to outfit a band of marauders. No, those girls had better pray to their trifling gods that you never decide to start caring.

"What troubles you, my lady?" Hellen asks brightly, stoking the fire in your hearth. She startles you where you sit, some ugly needlepoint untouched in your lap, dressed in somber, unfussy black. "You always seem so...pensive."

"Nothing, Hellen," you reply brusquely. "Will you take this away? I don't feel well." You hold out the embroidery hoop petulantly, which she takes from your hand and examines.

"Your work is so...intense, Lady Bolton," she remarks, and you glare at her. You have been embroidering a battle scene, replete with bloody swords and gushing wounds, screaming women, men seizing in their death throes, horses bucking and foaming at the mouth.

"Well, it isn't as if they were going to hang an image of a flowery meadow full of rabbits and does on the wall in the great hall," you mutter. "Not here."

"Right you are," Hellen agrees with a giggle, putting away your hoop. "It is well-done, anyway. That's what matters."

That night, you are drifting in and out of restless slumber when you feel a prickling of pain in your abdomen, the same pain you had felt hours ago when you had been embroidering. It turns into a smoldering cramping that shoots downward into your belly, into your legs. You are not fully roused, however, until you feel hot wetness on your inner thighs. You turn back the bedding to find both your nightdress and the bed fouled with what looks in the dark like blood, clotted, mingling with pale tissue. You are too afraid to move, to light a candle so that you can see better. The mess is coming from inside of you, but this is not your monthly bleed; it is much more, much quicker, much uglier. Your breath quickens.

“Ramsay,” you hiss, then repeat yourself, louder. He sleeps like the dead after he's had you. You give him a stiff kick in the shin. He stirs and sits up, scowling at the interruption to his sleep, blinking blearily at you, at the blood.

"What's happened?" he asks.

“We are being punished,” you say darkly, turning your face away from him so that he knows that you blame _him_ for this, blame him for destroying the gods-given sanctity of your marriage by allowing other women into his bed. The gods have taken away _your_ child for _his_ misdeeds.

“And what are we being punished for?” You can hear the sneer in his voice, and you hate him for it. He doesn’t wait for your answer. He hikes your nightdress up around your hips so that he can see the extent of the carnage. It coats the insides of your thighs, your buttocks, matted into your pubic hair, a thin, sticky layer. The ingredients for a child never mingled correctly. Dissected. He kneels between your legs and begins to lick the gore from your thighs, slowly but purposefully, swallowing down the clots veined with tissue, his own child. The remnants of it. He works his way up to your womanhood, and begins to apply this same thoroughness to the folds and whorls of your cunt. It feels good, and you feel guilty for thinking that it feels good, when you are still aching with the emptiness of the barren womb you hadn't even known was full. You cover your face with your hands, panting as he finishes the blood and concentrates his attentions on the center of your pleasure. Just when you are about to meet your peak, he pulls away and bites deep into your thigh. The skin resists, resists, then breaks like the easy flesh of a fruit, spilling new blood in rivulets down your leg. Before you have even finished squirming in pain, he is back at your cunt again. Through the achy haze you manage to almost-climax again, immediately, before he pulls away and sinks another bite into your other thigh. He doesn’t let go this time; he shakes his head from side to side, tearing like a dog trying to rip away a hunk of meat. You bite your tongue as you feel tissue tearing, hear it ripping, your tight, young skin. You buck and struggle, but he is so much stronger than you; it only takes him one arm to pin you completely.

You wonder if he does this with his whores or if he saves this just for his wife.

When finally he released you, his teeth leave your skin with an audible sticking, slicking sound. You make a noise, finally, a small, strangled sound of pain, both physical and emotional.

"Look at me," he orders, his mouth ringed with your blood. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes closed. "Look at me. Nobody is punishing you. Nobody punishes you but me. If you are not fit to carry my children, then that is no matter to me. I'll have you walled up someplace in the keep and get another just like you shipped in from some other Northern backwater." Suddenly, you are filled with so much rage that you want to vomit. You strike him, hard, across the face, and while he is still motionless with surprise, you seize the small blade you have been keeping under your pillow for peace of mind. You hold it near his throat, your hand shaking with anger, blinded by it. You have never done anything like this before.

"I am more than fit," you say through gritted teeth. "It is your seed that is unfit to take root in me, you adulterous bastard. The next time I see one of your dirty harlots slinking around I will cut her throat, and yours as well, and I will _not_ feel a jot guilty." A horrible smile leaks across his face, a smile that is twisted with something like pride. He pries the knife out of your hand easily and tosses it away. It clatters to the floor somewhere across the room. He wipes his bloody mouth on the back of his hand and rolls away from you, rises to retrieve some fresh linen that Hellen had set by your bedside earlier. He wraps it around the bruising bite-marks on your legs, stemming the bleeding and the sting. You watch him warily, but let him do it.

"There. You'll be alright for tonight, little nettle," your husband says in what some might consider a fond tone. "Don't fret. No more whores, and no more lost babes." He pulls down your nightdress, covering the makeshift bandages, covering the stains on the bedding, and covers you with the bedding, the many furs to block the all-permeating chill. "Go back to sleep." He pulls you to his chest, a gesture of sentimentality that you do not expect from him, and against every survival instinct that you have in your body, you do.


End file.
